


In the Rain

by lampshaded (illuicient)



Series: A Choice of Influence [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuicient/pseuds/lampshaded
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting between enemies before the first battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Rain

“Harry, you cannot be serious.”

“I am, and I mean to do it soon.”

“But—really, him, of all people?”

This is why I hadn’t told them right off the bat. Sure, best friends are usually the people you would tell your thoughts and plans to, but I knew it would go over like this.

Hermione stared at me with her big brown eyes and chewed on her lower lip, chapping it further. The winter air had her hair in a constant state of static and it was clinging to Neville’s jumper, just behind her. It gave her a slightly distressed look, like an owl that was just on the verge of fluffing its feathers to release a sigh of tension.

Ron was frowning down at his food and gripping his fork tight. The force of his thoughts had the small piece of silverware bending in his hand. He was obviously trying to come up with a way to tactfully change my mind. Hermione had been encouraging his diplomacy in recent conversations and the threat of her reprimand was most likely still hanging in his head.

“Harry,” Hermione twisted her hands in her lap. “Are you sure this is a good decision? There are so many things that could go wrong. You could be inviting them to.”

“I think it will be alright,” I sighed.

“But will it really?” Hermione peered at me as if trying to read my reasoning like one of her dusty books.

“I think it will. Being cautious is one thing—,”

She made a noise of discomfort.

“But being paranoid is another.” I stood and gripped the coin in my pocket. Its cool metal was a reminder that our resources were limited when it came to wizards who knew how to fight. “We need more allies and I am not afraid to look for them in unconventional places.”

“But him? Has it got to be him?” Ron piped up, finally setting his bent fork down with a grimace. “Why would he be such a good ally?”

“Because,” I bent down, closer to the table. “Of his background.”

“Of being a git?” Ron blinked.

“His background with the dark arts,” Hermionie leaned forward and hissed at him. She pursed her lips as she sat back, thinking.

“We need more people who know what they’re looking at when they see a dark spell or object.” I said. 

Ron snorted.

“He’s probably got loads of those just hanging in his room right now, ready to be used.” He said as he reached for another helping of gooseberry pudding. Hermione looked away as he dripped fruit sauce from the serving plate to his own.

“What makes you think he won’t just pretend to be on our side?” She asked, lines of worry creasing the skin of her brow. “How do you know he won’t just join him anyway?”

“He’s a coward who only looks out for himself,” I said.

“That’s not helping your argument, mate,” Ron pointed out around a mouthful of pudding.

“I won’t torture him when things get dull.” I said, and looked up as the subject of our conversation got up and made his way toward the entrance of the Great Hall. “I won’t kill him if he makes a mistake, fails a mission, or even decides he doesn’t want anything to do with the war at all.”

Hermione sighed, clutching her books tightly. Ron was staring at his empty plate.

“I just want to give him a chance.” I whispered, turning my gaze from one to the other and back again. I wanted them to back my idea, to support me.

“Just,” Hermione said, biting her lip again and looking worried. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” Ron joined in. “Don’t turn your back on him for one second.”

“Thanks guys,” I said, and gave them my best of-course-I’ll-be-careful grin before turning and following my target out of the room.

I went quickly down the darkened stair that led to the front doors of the school. I was just fast enough to catch a glimpse of the outside light on his pale hair as he stepped out of the castle.

Wrapping my fingers around the comforting wood grip of my wand, I followed.

...

 

He remembered it well, the sharp click of shining boots across a marble floor and the fabric swish of a heavy cape being removed. Draco had waited in silence until he’d been addressed. 

His father had once been known for his entertaining quick wit and quiet humor. Those times had gone, bled into the present where he only spoke in stiff voice, one that Draco knew was slightly horse from the dark curses it had been intoning during the earlier part of the evening.

Draco had once studied the man as he’d informed the household of the changes that were soon to take place, the visitors that were soon to come. Draco knew him well, despite the dark stranger he’d become.

Sentimentalities were for fools.

But he still missed his father.

…

He’d known it was coming, the familiar feather-light weight of a gloved hand resting on his bare shoulder, its silent demand of compliance stronger than the Imperius. 

Familial bonds were inborn, were stronger, and held more weight than their physical counterparts. Chains were for beasts and shackles for muggles. He needed neither.

Draco had remained perfectly motionless at the touch, his face carefully crafted into a pale mask. 

…

 

A murmured word bubbled through his thoughts like the boiling of a gloppy potion in one of the school’s stained cauldrons. 

“Submit.”

He’d bowed his head and murmured his assent, the final step in the rite. The white-hot burn of pain had followed a second later, etching itself into the flesh of his arm. Too bright too look at, the tip of his father’s wand had illuminated the even the plush chairs across the room. Their satin pillows had gleamed in its light.

Draco’s memories were as fragmented as a reflection in a shattered mirror. He remembered little else other than the pain. 

His father’s face had been a pale, white mask in the sparking flash of the spell. Draco’s arm had cramped as he clenched the too-large signet ring in his sweating fist. 

…

Draco’s swirling thoughts slowly congealed on the inside of his skull. Nothing was going to change the facts. There was no choice. There never had been. Stronger than any chain, his heritage coursed through his veins, beating blue just below the surface of his pale skin.

His father had always been with him. He’d always known where Draco was when he’d been a child, taking his lessons and playing in various parts of the Manor. He’d known when Draco had snuck out of his room to practice on his broom so he could show off his skills when he finally went to Hogwarts. He’d known that Draco would be placed in Slytherin, where he would gain considerable prestige amongst his classmates. 

Now, his father knew exactly where Draco was and, if he focused enough, he would be able to tell what his thoughts were. The family crest on his shoulder had slowly healed over time and now that it was a faded scar it was able to accept its full range of functions. 

Draco shifted in the alcove, lightly gripping his arm as it gave a steady throb of pain. He dreaded the signal it gave: his father wanted to speak with him.

The sudden crunch of a stone grinding under a boot jolted him out from his thoughts. Draco jerked his wand out, training it on the source of the sound, just behind an overgrown hedge. If it was a student who’d come to spy on him, they were going to get more than they’d bargained for.

“You’re two seconds away from being hexed,” Draco growled. Or cursed, his mind supplied.

“Easy Malfoy,” a male voice said. Hands held aloft, wand securely tucked away, a slightly damp Harry Potter stepped into view. “I didn’t come out here to fight.”

Potter obviously hadn’t learned to cast a proper Impervious charm and didn’t seem to be bothered by the fact that it was, in fact, raining on his school outfit.

“Then what did you come out here for, Potter?” He spat, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t lower his wand.

“Why are you out here, in this rain?” Potter continued rather cheerfully, ignoring his question in the most infuriating way. He seemed entirely unconcerned that Draco could fire off any number of jinxes, hexes, or even curses. “It’s a rather wet day to have lunch outside.”

“It is none of your business why I am out here.” Draco snapped, his arm smarting again and his patience wearing thin. He certainly hadn’t come out to be interrogated by a nosy Gryffindor. “And I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”

In the back of his mind Draco was rather surprised how like his father his last words had sounded. While not looking particularly surprised, Potter sighed and squared his shoulders, making himself suddenly look years older than he was. Instead of a slouching, scrawny teenager he looked like a middle-aged man ground down by years of troubles.

“I’d hoped to start off with some small talk, Malfoy.” He said quietly, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right. I need to talk with you though.”

The odd illusion had passed. Draco once again stared at his fidgeting classmate.

“So talk,” He said, finally lowering his wand.

Somewhat encouraged, Potter looked to the pond through the mist.

...

 

“What is this about, Potter?” He asked, glaring at the scruffy, scrawny kid in front of him that had charmed so many. How could he have become so famous without learning the most basic grooming charms or even how to fasten his tie in a straight knot?

“Um, it’s just, well…” Potter stumbled over his words, one of his hands jingling something noisily in his pocket. His black hair was more wild than usual, spurred into near curls by the damp weather.

“You dragged me away from my studies—when you know we have fourteen inches of potions essay due tomorrow—into the rain on this bloody muddy excuse for a path to ‘um’ at me?” Malfoy’s tone was sharp. Harry couldn’t help feel like he was being berated by a professor, like McGonagall.

“I—no! Not, not really.” Potter kicked at a clod of grass and suddenly seemed to inflate with courage. His eyes lock onto his adversary’s, firm and determined. “I wanted to offer a truce.”

Malfoy blinked once, his expression unreadable. Harry began to feel more awkward as the silence stretched. He swiped at the water collecting on his glasses. A frog croaked in the lake nearby. 

“You want a truce.” It wasn’t a question. Malfoy suddenly barked out a sharp, humorless laugh. 

“Harry Potter,” He spat, his lips twisting downwards. “The great hero, no, savior of the wizarding world, has come to negotiate a truce with me, the lowly, downtrodden Malfoy.” He sneered and turned. “Don’t waste my time. I don’t care to contemplate your inane antics.”

“No—Malfoy, wait!” Harry trotted forward to keep up with the long-legged man. “Really, I want a truce. You’re—we’re not really enemies. Not with this war going on.”

Malfoy stopped, his back straight and stiff in his dark, crisp robe. His fine hair brushed the top of his starched collar. He was definitely wearing a charm to stay dry. Malfoy turned around and fixed Harry with a piercing stare.

“You—I mean, we never really were enemies.” Harry stammered. “Not—not like that.” 

“Not like that.” Draco repeated, tingles of adrenaline beginning to work through his body as he thought with interest. “What would this truce cover, exactly?”

“I—I really don’t need any more enemies. I’ve got enough of those. If anything, I could use a few more friends.” Harry said in a rush, then flushed as Malfoy raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“You want me,” Malfoy dictated, his words precise. “To be your friend?”

“Err, yes?”

“Even though,” Malfoy’s voice cut, increasing in volume. “My house, my friends, my family, and my ideals are everything you despise. You want to be friends.”

Harry started to say something but was abruptly cut off.

“No, no, don’t say anything, don’t say a thing!” Malfoy spat, his eyes narrow. “Let me get this straight. You, Harry Potter, savior, hero, conquerer of evil, the almighty bringer of the light into the darkness of the wizarding world are asking me, Draco Malfoy, of The Malfoy lineage, if I, he whose father and aunt are directly—,”

Harry made to interrupt again but was silenced.

“Quiet! Don’t they reflect rather poorly on this matter? Are you sure that you want to be asking me, He-who-isn’t-worthy-to-be-scraped-off-the-bottom-of-the-Savior’s-boots to be your friend? Do I really understand this correctly, you want the two of Us to be Friends?

Malfoy’s brow was furrowed, his face twisted. He was breathing sharply through his nose and stared with an intensity that was piercing. 

“I—well, yes.” Harry offered. “I mean no—not about all that light-bringing and shoe-scraping stuff. But friends, yeah.” 

Malfoy was still staring and Harry flushed, realizing that he wasn’t being terribly articulate.

“Just me and—you and I, not Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Just us, as we are, friends.” Harry finally got out.

Malfoy’s sharp gaze harrowed into him for a moment longer before he spun smartly on his heel, turning again back to the castle to leave, yet he didn’t take a step. It was a long moment before the silence was broken.

“Are there any other conditions of this truce?” He intoned, his back still turned. “What are my benefits?”

Harry stared for a moment, then snorted and shook his some droplets out of his soggy hair.

“How about a ticket to freedom after this whole war thing is over? As you said, your relations may ‘reflect poorly’ when they decide who gets to stay and who gets carted off the Azkaban. If you work with me you won’t have to deal with that.”

“You’re that sure you will win?” Malfoy’s voice was tight, thin.

“Yes. Voldemort is a mere man. We will fight and he will fall.” Harry said with absolute certainty, his voice steady and clear. “It will happen soon, whether or not you pick a side.”

The wind began to pick up, the rain fell heavier, stippling the bright surface of the water.

“And what makes you think I haven’t already chosen?” Malfoy whispered, his hand tightening on his forearm, just below his elbow. His voice was hardly audible.

“I don’t care.” Harry said.

Malfoy turned back to him in a single, abrupt motion. The charm on his hair was beginning to wear off and his wet fringe started to droop.

“What?” He asked sharply.

“I said I don’t care if you’ve already chosen.” Harry’s brow furrowed, his gaze strong and focused as it cut through the misty air. 

“I don’t care about that thing on your arm or what was done to you to get it there. I know how some choices aren’t really choices at all—how you can want something so simple, you want it so bad, but it can’t happen. I know you—I saw when you stood at wand-point at the top of a tower, looking down at a defenseless man, when they were telling you to kill him. Even then, you couldn’t do it.”

Malfoy’s already pale face was taking on an even whiter pallor, his eyes wide.

“I know even when you try your hardest—even when your life depends on it, that you are no killer. You were dragged into your situation just as I was dragged into mine. I’m ready for what’s coming.” Potter paused, his determined eyes suddenly searching and sad as if Draco was a tragedy just waiting to happen. “You—he’ll kill you. You must see that.”

Draco’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. A tremor shook one of his knees. The fears that had been hovering quietly in the back of his mind suddenly seemed to choke him, squeezing the breath out of his chest with their weight.

“I—that wasn’t what I came out here to say,” Harry said quietly, his eyes dropped off to the side as he ducked his head and kicked at the clump of grass again. “But it’s true. I don’t want it to happen, either. I—I couldn’t hate anyone that much, not even you.” His eyes flicked back to Malfoy.

Rain dripped off of Draco’s fringe and ran down the side of his face. He stood immobile. 

“I’m offering you a real choice, one that you’ll have to make on your own. There is no catch, you just continue your life as it is and when the time comes, watch my back. I’ll watch yours.”

The cool rain was falling steadily, soaking them both. Draco could feel it start to puddle in his shoes. A minute passed. The lakeside was silent, apart from the rain.

“I’ll let you think about it,” Potter whispered and stepped past him, back toward the castle. His ratty trainers squished through the dark mud, dragging sodden frays of pantlegs through a deep puddle.

Malfoy’s hand shot out, his slim, cold fingers gripping the other man’s fingertips in tight desperation. Harry stilled, eyes on the limp grass of the path. The foreign hand pinching his trembled.

“I accept.”

Harry could hardly hear his voice over the heavy drops falling around him but nodded just the same. 

They walked back to the castle together; coat sleeves brushing, cold fingers touching. In the rain.


End file.
